


Even His Bravado

by magikfanfic



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Coming Untouched, Established Relationship, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Rogue One, chirrut asks for what baze masturbates to and gets more than he bargained for, sex and religion are basically the same thing for these two, sex as worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 22:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magikfanfic/pseuds/magikfanfic
Summary: They are stretched out beneath a tree in the far part of the temple garden, Chirrut’s outer robe under them and Baze’s over them because even in the summer Jedha is chill and the ground is packed clay that seems to hold the cold close against itself. Chirrut is humming tunelessly, mindlessly, as though he always needs to be doing something, and his hand has managed to slip under the layers that Baze still wears to find his skin, trace words and runes and designs there, each idle caress something that Baze would happily dissolve into. The touches are light: a breath of wind, a beam of light, a feather, the brush of flower petals, a silk scarf, but they make Baze burn and shift slightly anyway, each one reminding him that he is a creature of bone and blood and skin and desire, that Chirrut is the same, that they are drawn together by something he cannot quite explain except in poetry, which displeases him because those words always seem nebulous, never concrete and exact enough.





	Even His Bravado

**Author's Note:**

> This sprung from a prompt that someone gave me on Tumblr that was, basically, for laughter during sex. It turned into this, and I'm not 110% behind it but it is what it is.
> 
> I also don't know what all to tag it so please let me know if there's anything in particular you need/suggest be added.

They are stretched out beneath a tree in the far part of the temple garden, Chirrut’s outer robe under them and Baze’s over them because even in the summer Jedha is chill and the ground is packed clay that seems to hold the cold close against itself. Chirrut is humming tunelessly, mindlessly, as though he always needs to be doing something, and his hand has managed to slip under the layers that Baze still wears to find his skin, trace words and runes and designs there, each idle caress something that Baze would happily dissolve into. The touches are light: a breath of wind, a beam of light, a feather, the brush of flower petals, a silk scarf, but they make Baze burn and shift slightly anyway, each one reminding him that he is a creature of bone and blood and skin and desire, that Chirrut is the same, that they are drawn together by something he cannot quite explain except in poetry, which displeases him because those words always seem nebulous, never concrete and exact enough. When their stars are united, all he knows is how brightly they burn. Bright and hot enough to melt the universe, more vivid than kyber, more powerful than the Force. It is blasphemy, but Baze cannot mind when he cups a hand around the nape of Chirrut’s neck, when Chirrut moans low and greedy into his mouth, hands fast and everywhere such that Baze would almost swear he has more than two even though he has seen him stripped of everything, even his bravado, and knows there is nowhere he could hide them.

“What do you think of?” Chirrut asks, cutting into his own humming, breaking the golden comfortable almost silence around them, and Baze thinks there is something dangerous in his voice. Not knife dangerous but the alluring darkness of an unexplored cavern dangerous. Explore with me, follow me, fall with me, it seems to say, and Baze has never been able to say no to Chirrut’s pleas, his face, his smiles, his never-ending lust for adventure. Chirrut is the most alive in the face of something new, and Baze lives for the full flush blaze of him.

Though he can sense something under the current, it does not dissuade him. “What do I think of what?”

The hand on his skin, which has been tracing over his chest and stomach (once an area that Baze tried to hide, cover, attempted to keep Chirrut’s attention away from until the other managed to convince him little by little with kisses and pets and praise that he liked it, liked the full roundness, the extra flesh dense over his muscle where Chirrut is lean and toned, the envy of all who see him, and the difference in their bodies can be somewhat profound when Baze considers it) slips lower, drifts below the waistband of his pants, and Baze sucks his breath in through clenched teeth because here is the danger. “What do you think of when you touch yourself?” Chirrut’s words are soft, whisper thin, but each one is sharp as any blade, and they gather in Baze’s stomach hot hot and pulse through his groin. It’s not fair how much Chirrut can affect him; he wouldn’t trade it for all the stars in the sky.

When he finds his voice, it’s scratchy, low, and his face burns from all the blood not already gathered in his cock rushing there. He is not new to want, not new to dirty talk, which Chirrut murmurs constantly when he gets the chance (Baze has come, wrecked, wretched, panting, from Chirrut’s words hung in his ears alone), but there is something about it that always sets him to blushing as though he were just learning about sex instead of being a man nearly twenty-five who has built a house in the garden of love to pluck fruit from its trees whenever they are offered. “I feel like I’ve answered this before.”

Chirrut’s laugh is less humor and more predatory, his fingers constantly sliding slowly lower, fingertips brushing into Baze’s pubic hair but not touching his cock, not yet, even when Baze shifts, squirms in an attempt to feel them against the straining, aching part of him. “You stammer and blush and never answer. Not that I question your honor, Baze, but I hardly think you’re so pious that you never find release on your own. So. What do you think about?”

Baze turns his head to watch Chirrut grin, lustful, and then lick his lips slowly in a way that makes Baze want to capture his mouth, swallow whatever words he means to say next, but does not. Just watches him. Chirrut with his bright, dark eyes and sharp, fine features that revealed themselves all at once in an overwhelming show of beauty when the last of the baby fat melted from his face, a power move that cemented the lust of far too much of the temple. Baze had thought Chirrut lost to him when that happened, that someone else, someone with a quicker tongue and better wit and finer features, would swoop Chirrut off his feet, carry him away, leave Baze standing in the cold, hands outstretched, wasting. Instead, Chirrut pursued him, hotly, with abandon, as though Baze was the prize everyone wanted. Even now, Baze does not fully understand what Chirrut sees in him that is so charming, so great, even though his limbs have been soaked in praise from Chirrut’s mouth as much as his kisses.

“Humor me, Baze.”

There is little he could ask for that Baze would deny, especially when that look is on his face and his voice is low, pitched for only them, and his fingers continue to linger, so close that Baze is positive he can feel the heat from them on his cock but still not offering the hint of a touch. Perhaps he means to make Baze come with words alone again. Far be it for Baze to ruin his plans. Even when they seem unwise, he finds that they both win in the end. “You,” he says and then sighs, keens as Chirrut runs a finger along his cock, a whisper, a hint, barely anything but still enough to make everything inside of him twist with want that feels as new, as fresh as the first time that Chirrut backed him into a rarely traveled hallway in the temple and pressed a fevered kiss to his throat, whispering something about how Baze needed to stop walking away every time he tried to flirt with him and say something. 

They were friends, yes, and Baze had woken on more than one occasion, hard, on the precipice of release, from dreams involving Chirrut’s lips and hands and the planes of his rose gold skin warm and pliant under his touch. But Baze had never dared say anything. Never made any advances. He would just nod and smile and talk, slow, low, or laugh at Chirrut’s aimless jokes. And he brushed the flirting off as though it were sand on his robes, a hazard of being in Chirrut’s vicinity but never taken it seriously because Chirrut was not a serious person. Except when he was, then he was stubborn and solid as kyber, but Baze never thought this could apply to him, had never hoped, not even when he was working his hand over his own hard length in the dark of the night, thinking of the way that Chirrut would press his tongue against his upper teeth, a sign of frustration or contemplation. Even when Baze would moan out Chirrut’s name, soft, soft, nothing more than a breath of wind through flower petals, he didn’t think he would ever have the thing he wanted. 

Until Chirrut crowded him into that corner, leaner than Baze and nearly a head and a half shorter, still awaiting the last of his growth spurt, all hands and arms and legs trapping him, securing him right where he wanted him, eyes a deadly beam settled on his face, lips a dangerous weapon pressed to his neck but not promising death except the small kind, a death Baze would happily fall into again and again at the behest of Chirrut’s hands and mouth and smile and words. Chirrut never lets him forget that he can bring him to climax with words alone. Chirrut devours that knowledge with as much fervor as he does the sweet buns that Baze will pluck, practically molten, from the temple ovens to gift him, bringing them shyly to him wrapped in castoff bits of fabric as though they were as sacred as any chunk of kyber. 

“What about me?” Chirrut asks, that one finger still idly smoothing over Baze’s cock the same way someone else might draw a line in the sand, as though it is nothing particularly interesting, terrifyingly mundane, ordinary.

It makes Baze feel like he could crawl out of his skin, and he shuts his eyes tight enough to see lights blossom behind the lids as he tries to hold the moan in, tries to keep himself under some semblance of control instead of rolling to capture Chirrut’s mouth the way he wants to and suck all the words out of it. “Maybe,” his voice sounds like a broken bottle rattling down stone stairs when he speaks. “Maybe we should take this elsewhere.” In full view of most of the temple under the main tree in the gardens is not the sort of thing that the elders encourage, and Baze doubts that this is what they meant when they said he and Chirrut were destined for greatness. Although he is, at the moment, strangely fine with the idea that this is how their names go down in history, sexual escapades in the temple garden under the watchful eyes of all. His common sense has apparently tottered off, forgotten by the quickening in his groin.

“Perhaps,” Chirrut draws the word out, taking his time with it in much the same way that he will take his time when kissing a path down Baze’s body, utterly slow, languid, which is always surprising because Chirrut is not a patient man, has never been patient. That is Baze’s forte. Chirrut is quick in many things. Fast like a sandstorm when he fights, quick-tempered, but also speedy when it comes to forgiving, his moods seeming to move through him like the rains that seek Jedha out every few years, bright and brash and blinding, a force of nature, but then gone, gentled, leaving them better for it when it eventually clears.

Baze is different. His rage simmers, a pot boiling slow until all the water has evaporated and the metal itself scorches, hot enough to injure, hot enough to leave a mark that will never properly heal. It is good, then, that his anger is so rare, a thing tucked far back in his mind, held in the confines of his heart. There are better things to do than be angry, like watching a sunset, singing the temple songs, praying to the Force in all the ways that he knows how, especially the sort of prayer that can be done at the temple of Chirrut’s body, on the planes of his back and the paths of his legs, the hidden wonders, and the sparkling depth of his eyes. And his heart. Which Baze has lain awake and listened to, head pillowed on Chirrut’s chest while the other breathes, and Baze memorizes the sounds that are only Chirrut, the pattern his heart finds, the spaces between the beats where he would like to live if that were possible.

“Perhaps?” Baze repeats when Chirrut offers nothing else except for the way his fingers drift away from his cock, combing back through his pubic hair and then resting in the fold of skin between groin and thigh, petting the skin there idly. 

When Chirrut does answer, Baze doesn’t need to glance over at him to know that he is smirking. “If you promise to tell me this time, perhaps we can go somewhere else.”

It’s hard to say whether the flush that creeps from his cheeks to his collarbone is a result of the words or the lingering fingers. Those kinds of words are difficult, have always been difficult. It has been years since Chirrut backed him into the corner, kissed his neck, kissed his cheeks, angled his face down so that he could press their lips together. It has been years since Baze opened his mouth, just a touch, just a little, and let Chirrut sneak his tongue inside, let Chirrut sneak inside almost as if he had not already been there, as if Baze had not already built a home there for him to have if he ever wanted it. Baze had opened his mouth, not to speak, not to affirm in anything as trivial and strange as words, but in a gesture. His mouth open, his hands at Chirrut’s waist to pull him closer and then under the robes, one palm spread flat against the skin of his back, which Baze had seen many times before, the other pressed on his chest where he could hear the quick beat of his heart, loud as any claps of thunder. They hadn’t needed words then. 

Baze has gotten better with the words but the mere thought of unleashing some of the things that he thinks of on those nights when they are not together, when he twitches and turns and cannot sleep, when the heat builds, make his mouth dry slightly because those are things that Chirrut can say. They turn to ash in his throat, choke him, come out sounding like technical manuals or worse, like broken prayers. They make him sound like a stuttering fool, completely unfit to be adored by Chirrut, and Baze does not like that, that feeling of being small, of being not enough.

“You don’t have to be shy,” Chirrut has turned to nuzzle his face against Baze’s neck, lips grazing over his skin as he speaks, and this will be his undoing, this will be his death, the small and the large one. “I won’t laugh at you.”

“Liar.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them or even fully process them, and then Chirrut is chuckling against his neck, which is hotter than it probably should be and just reminds him, once again, of how hard his cock is trapped under layers of fabric, and he shifts his hips slightly for some small semblance of friction. 

Chirrut rolls, effortlessly, almost in a blur, freeing his hand as he does, until he is straddling Baze, the robe now wrapped strangely about them in a way that will be difficult to untangle but Baze cannot care too much when there is all of Chirrut pressed against him in a very interesting and pleasing manner. His hips tilt up slightly, and Chirrut catches his wrists to press them firmly against the ground even as he bends close. “I will only laugh at your fumbling. And how adorable you are when trying to say certain things. None of it will be cruel. I cannot be cruel to you.”

Baze thinks his trapped and aching erection, the teasing, more of which he is currently undergoing, might be a decent argument that Chirrut can, in fact, be cruel, but he decides that it is not worth it. It is much better to lift his head enough that he can run his tongue over Chirrut’s lips slowly, enticing in a way that he knows the other likes. To any onlookers, Baze imagines that it looks a bit like they are sparring. Actually, he supposes, it looks like they have been sparring and Chirrut has won. Again. This is a common occurrence. Chirrut is the best fighter in the temple, though Baze has managed to best him on a couple of rare occasions, normally because he has the stamina to wait Chirrut out. Chirrut is quick, and his blows are well delivered. He is balanced and versed in the best ways to strike. He is strong. And his own stamina is very good, honed by years of practice. Baze is less graceful, equally strong though in slightly different ways, and built like a house. Trying to match Chirrut speed for speed, strike for strike, never works. Not for him. He has learned. If he can hold his ground long enough, if he can tire Chirrut out just enough, then there will be an opening. He cannot always take it, but when he does, he can best the man. 

Those are the smaller victories, of course. The larger ones, the ones that actually mean something, are the ones he wins here in Chirrut’s arms, in Chirrut’s heart. Baze has sworn that he will never lose here, not if he can manage it, not as long as he lives.

“This is not cruel?” Baze asks, presses his hips up again, and Chirrut’s intake of breath is a win. He can feel Chirrut already hard too through the layers of fabric and thinks about how he would like to suck the head of his cock into his mouth, run his tongue along it, make Chirrut twitch and moan and thread his fingers into his hair. The idea makes Baze’s cock jump in its confines, and he tries to remember the words, the image so that he can feed it back to Chirrut the way he wants to hear.

Chirrut’s breathing, normally controlled, stutters out, hard, fast, but the smile on his lips remains just slightly on the edge of disinterested because he is a nuisance. Baze loves it. “I could stop,” Chirrut says, runs his tongue over his lips even as he tightens his grip around Baze’s wrists just a touch more, which almost pulls a moan as much as the shift of his hips, “if you think I’m so cruel.”

Baze is lost. Lost and sinking, swirling into the lust haze, the love haze, the one that sends him into bouts of reciting poetry and makes his palms sweat. He thought it would get better once Chirrut wrapped himself around him, once Chirrut cleared the fog in his mind with the first push of his tongue into his mouth, but it has never lessened. If anything, it has just gotten sharper, clearer, easier to define, harder to deny. He loves this man. He has never loved anything as much as this man, and it would be blasphemy if Baze was not certain of the Force and the way that it exists throughout them all, if he did not know how he could feel it, winding into his thoughts and his heart, coursing into his body, traveling the crossroads of his veins with his blood, augmented by the feel of Chirrut’s skin, Chirrut’s lips, Chirrut’s cock when he sinks into him, when they rock together in communion, and how Baze can see them, tied and bound and endlessly connected in the energy in those moments before he comes, when the universe becomes clear and crystal, starlight and poetry.

This is a lesson no one prepared him for, but one that Chirrut eased him through when it happened the first time. Baze crying out in pleasure as much as discontent, his mind lancing too far, too flung out into the reaches of it all, and Chirrut there with him in body and spirit, holding his hand, tracing fingers over his face, murmuring his name until he was right back where he should be, clutching his hands over Chirrut’s flanks, both of them whispering prayers twined together with declarations of love. This is how love works for them. It is them, and it is the Force. It is bigger than their bodies, it is as expansive as the universe, but that has never made Baze feel small despite the fact that it could. He is not alone here, in the world, in the galaxy, in the Force. He is surrounded by something, his skin cells and his energy merged and swirled together like paint on a palette; Chirrut is bright yellow, red like fresh blood, purple for pride and daring, white as hot as kyber while Baze is the blue of veins under skin, gray like the sky before a rain, ruddy like the Jedhan sand, the green of shoots in the garden his only saving grace. Blended together they are a mess until one looks closer at the picture they paint conjoined.

Chirrut’s teeth at his ear remind him, though, that he has things to concentrate on in the present. “Don’t stop,” Baze whispers, and Chirrut chuckles. And then, with great effort, because they are still in the temple garden and allowing Chirrut to pin him this long without a struggle, without moving, would be a difficult truth for anyone to swallow, “But we should move this elsewhere.”

“Once you promise me.” Chirrut can be a stubborn, fixated man when he sets his sights on something; Baze has never minded. If Chirrut was anything else, they might never have gotten together because Baze does not think he would have ever cobbled his words or actions into something that would approximate a first move, would have simply continued rising hard in the night thinking of the nape of Chirrut’s neck, the play of the muscles in his back, the tilt of his smile.

Baze’s breath is ragged, and his cock pulses where it is trapped, the friction when one of them shifts delightful but not quite enough. His words are stutters when they come, but Chirrut does not seem to mind. “I will. I will tell you. What I think about.”

“Yes?” Chirrut is mean in the ways that make his blood sing in his ears, and his heart pound, and his mind burn.

Baze imagines that he is the same shade as the clay that makes up their moon, as he swallows and shifts, the blush creeping further into his hairline and down his body. Sometimes Chirrut likes to chase it with his tongue, see how much of Baze he can make flush, suck marks onto his skin to keep track. “I promise I will tell you all the thoughts that make me come.” Baze’s voice has dropped to a whisper, low, low, but Chirrut is so close that they share air so he does not worry about him hearing. “All the imaginings I have of you that make me hard.”

When Chirrut pulls back, triumphant, there is a grin on his face that threatens to split him in two. He is hurried motion, finding his feet, adjusting himself under the pretense of shaking sand and dirt and leaves from his robes while Baze continues to lie on the ground, dazed. Chirrut nudges him with his toe, always demanding. “Up.”

Someone else might have the wherewithal to comment that they already are, Chirrut surely would, but Baze only surges forward to follow, tripping in the folds of cloth under and over him that Chirrut managed to avoid because he is arcane magic, some trick of the Force, some conjuring made to test Baze. Baze is unsure whether he is passing or failing, doesn’t care. Finally, he finds his feet, retrieving the discarded robes and carrying them in front of himself, another layer to hide the fact that his cock is at full attention, unwavering.

Chirrut is either less perturbed by the idea of being spotted sporting an erection while crossing the distance between the temple garden and their quarters or he is as good at body mastery as he claims and has been able to will himself soft. Baze cannot tell because as soon as he has found his feet, Chirrut is spinning on his heel to stride across the ground toward the doorway, Baze following close behind. 

It is a good thing that their robes do not cling or Baze would be having an even harder time because he would be staring at Chirrut’s ass. 

“Yours is better,” Chirrut quips over his shoulder, and Baze is aghast that he has either said it out loud or Chirrut has, once again, done the thing where he knows what is going through Baze’s head. For once, the latter is the preferred option.

“I don’t know about that.”

“I know you don't, which is why I'm here to remind you.” Chirrut turns towards him as they move, walking backward without even a hint of difficulty, and Baze cannot tame the smile this action makes flicker across his face. For all his dedication and drive, Chirrut can still be a flippant, silly mess when he wants, when it's needed. Chirrut soothes with laughter and smiles and swears that no one needs this tactic as much as Baze.

“We're not talking about me today,” Baze says as he follows, eyes locked on Chirrut’s perfect mouth, hands still full of discarded robes held over his crotch. 

They have reached their door by now, and Chirrut leans heavily against it, watching him with eyes that can only be described as bedroom, sultry, wanting, and Baze wars with himself not to crowd him there, bracket his body with his own and press his straining erection to Chirrut’s thigh to show his interest peaked, not that he imagines the other doubts it. “No? Not even a little? That might be difficult for me. You know how I tend to carry on about the important things.”

Baze’s blush rises higher, hotter. He has not doubted that Chirrut thinks him important, but it never ceases to make an impact when the words land. 

“How ever will you stop me from running my mouth, I wonder.”

Slowly, marginally, Baze has been creeping forward until he is looming over Chirrut, robes now slung across his shoulder, hands braced on the door so that he can easily press lingering kisses on Chirrut’s cheeks, but it is his lover who snaps his hips forward obscenely to grind against him. Baze’s ideas of a potential comeback are lost in the groan that the motion pulls from his throat. 

“You'll have to do better than that,” Chirrut chastises, one hand fumbling behind himself, and then they are both pitching into the solitude of their room, a tangle of arms and legs, as the door swings open. 

“Chirr,” Baze starts but does not get to finish his sentence or even the thought because all of his focus is suddenly on using every trick that he has ever learned in order to not topple right onto the ground.

Chirrut has, of course, already jumped seamlessly out of the way as though this was little more than another kick to master. By the time, Baze is rounding to close the door, Chirrut is already shucking out of his clothing with little regard to care or decency. It is almost enough to drive Baze to such distraction that he could leave the door open, just take in the sight of flesh being uncovered bit by bit. Then Chirrut tosses a tunic over his head along with two words that despite not sounding like a command, manage to convey that sense entirely, “Baze, door.”

Baze shuts it hard enough that the items on their shelves rattle Their shelves are fuller than they have any right to be because Chirrut collects things seemingly out of nowhere, crystals and tiny animals carved from stone, bits of broken plates, and Baze keeps hoarding books he finds in the marketplace, tomes of poetry and stories and other religions, older religions, that he likes to pour through and then present long theories about how they are tied to the Force to Chirrut when the other is quiet and contemplative, willing to listen and help him make valid arguments to take to the masters. Some of their brethren would no doubt chastise them about the sheer amount of material objects in their possession, but Baze cannot bring himself to mind, especially now as he pushes the tunic off his face and onto the floor to catch a glimpse of Chirrut, naked, glorious, standing there and practically glowing just from the smile stretched across his face alone. (Logically, half of the glow is from the beams of sunlight that fall just so through their slanted window, but Baze is a ship capsizing on the sea of love; logic has no place here so Chirrut’s glow is entirely his own, his soul shining through his golden skin, lighting him up from the inside like something sacred, and this is the altar where Baze will put his faith, again and again, as long as he is allowed.)

Chirrut just tilts his head and stands there, practically preens at the attention, and Baze drinks him in, the moments gone long and languid because there is no rush despite how hard he is, how much he wants to cross the space and sweep his tongue inside of Chirrut’s mouth and his hands down his sides, to hear him gasp and laugh the way that he always does, pleased, when Baze takes the initiative. 

“Baze,” he says after a moment, inclines his chin down slightly, “our states of dress indicate preparation for entirely different sorts of worship. Would you like me to rectify that?” The words are oddly formal, sound like they should issue from Baze’s mouth, and he likes this, too, the ways in which they have bled into one another, the ways in which they change to mirror the other. It’s as though all the words of his that Chirrut has swallowed have taken up residence in him, grown like flowers, vines; Baze worries sometimes, though, that he does not mirror Chirrut enough, that he is inhospitable grounds for his lover’s blooms. Or, perhaps, he is just slower to grow, move, change. Chirrut never seems to mind, either way.

“Please.” The word hisses out almost without his conscious permission, and Baze flushes at the want that seems to spill from it, blatant, but Chirrut’s grin only grows infinitesimally larger, a change that Baze thinks only he would be able to see.

There is something unreal in the way that Chirrut can move, like a bolt of smooth fabric in the wind, something about the way his body is lean and perfected; he moves like water, he moves like a breeze across the desert, and Baze is never anything but captivated by it. Baze, himself, feels ungainly when unclothed like there is too much of him everywhere, and he never knows where to put his hands, how to look natural despite being in his natural state, always wanting to twist and turn away, mask the imperfections, the muchness of himself. Chirrut looks like he should never be clothed, like covering him is blasphemy, and Baze agrees. Oh, how he agrees.

“Is this what you think about?” Chirrut whispers, voice hoarse and tenser than Baze would have assumed it would be after having done so little, as though Chirrut is a coiled spring ready to snap. His fingers make quick work of Baze’s garments, untying closures and slipping hooks free, and Baze gasps when his fingers settle at the waistband of his trousers, lean, warm, questing. Baze gasps, and circles his own fingers around Chirrut’s wrist, thumb rubbing at the pulse point, and Chirrut’s eyes are hooded, dangerous, darker than the spaces between the stars when he looks at him, only slightly up now. There is no longer the needed to pull Baze as far down or stand on his toes as much as there used to be when they started. “Yes, my heart?” Chirrut asks as though sensing an unasked question in Baze’s touch.

Chirrut always accuses him of being the sappy one, the romantic one, the one prone to poetry and intricate words, but when stripped down, when held in the hands like something small and delicate--which Chirrut steadfastly is not because he is as deadly as any blaster in any holster on Jedha, potentially any weapon in the whole of the universe--he can be soft, quick to indulge in and bequeath terms of endearment that make Baze’s toes curl and his heart kick into such a strange rhythm that he almost thinks it will march itself right out of his chest to lie at Chirrut’s feet itself. Chirrut is a needle, Baze thinks, his fingers still tracing over the skin of his wrists to feel his pulse, ground him a little in the knowledge that this is real and this is true; Chirrut is a needle, sharp, dangerous to wield but always made to mend in the right hands. Is there anything more powerful than someone who knows when to take up the banners and when to lay them down? When to use a cutting jibe and when to soothe? Baze doesn’t think so. 

Chirrut is still grinning, wild eyes roving over the pieces of fabric that he has undone but that Baze has not shrugged out of yet, and Baze notes, once again, how Chirrut’s gaze, even peppered with lust, is always tender more than anything else. Tender, of course, is also a word that perhaps only Baze would ascribe to Chirrut, and this is fine even if it is, perhaps, slightly greedy. Baze is only greedy when it comes to Chirrut.

“Baze?” Chirrut prods, sliding a leg forward to press lightly against Baze’s groin, reminding them both of his trapped cock, straining to be free. “Can your ruminations wait? Just a little. I love them as I love all of you, but I’m slightly more focused on your physical presence at the moment. I’d like to remind you how enticing that can be.”

Baze groans because with each word Chirrut is moving his leg in small circles against his erection, shooting sparks throughout his entire system, and making him want to just settle his hands against Chirrut’s shoulders and kiss him into tomorrow. “That’s,” he struggles to complete the thought because the friction is good, and Chirrut’s fingers are clenched tight into his clothing, pulling him closer. 

“Yes?” Chirrut goads, and Baze can hear the smile in his voice as much as he can enjoy it on his face, flash and hot like the grenades they have seen some of the insurgents use on the outskirts of the mesa. 

“That’s base,” Baze manages to stutter out, and Chirrut laughs. 

“Remember your promise. I’m not going to be the only one uttering base things tonight.” 

Baze thinks he would flush darker if so much of his blood was not otherwise occupied, but the comment still serves to make his cheeks and neck warmer even as he leans forward to catch Chirrut’s mouth in a small kiss. He means it to be a small kiss, light and sweet, fleeting, but Chirrut has other ideas, kisses him deep, rushed, tongue hurriedly crowding into his mouth, and then they seem to exist outside of time, only truly alive in each other’s presence, the kiss as deep as any cave in the desert, trapped together until Chirrut pulls back a bit, panting. His hands on Baze’s clothes are no longer anywhere near patient, pushing at them where before he had simply been undoing them. 

“Let me see you bare or I’m going to implode,” Chirrut says, frantic, frenzied, and Baze swipes his thumb over his pulse point again to see if that will still him for a moment. He only shudders and seems to manage to figure out how to crowd closer, practically slipping between Baze’s skin and muscle; he swears that he can feel the heat of Chirrut inside of his own bones, and he moans softly as the last bits of fabric finally slide off of his body to the floor below. 

It’s normally cold in their room; it’s cold in all the temple. Jedha is a cold moon despite the sand and the bright sun. There is no chill in the air now, though, crowded and full of their want. Everything is warm and scented of them, of their interest. It hangs heavy in the air, and Baze breathes it in, lets it fill his senses even as Chirrut presses his mouth to Baze’s chest, sucking marks against his collarbone that will purple the next day, marks that Chirrut will try and find some reason for Baze to show off, though Baze is never interested in baring his skin for anyone but Chirrut and has never known anyone else wanting to see it, either.

“Force,” Baze breathes, stutters his hips forward to press his cock against Chirrut’s thigh again, feels his lover’s interest just as hard and intent. He lets go of Chirrut’s wrist to curve his hand around his hip, smoothing over the skin there while the other cups the back of Chirrut’s neck, fingers worrying into his short hair as he continues to kiss and lick and bite at Baze’s collar bones, potentially leaving a necklace of marks. Baze would happily let him mark his entire body if he wanted, brand their love on anything he desired. 

When Chirrut finally looks up, his pupils are blown wide, lips plush and bruised “Bed,” he says, fingertips prodding against Baze’s abdomen, which Baze has always considered too full, too thick, too yielding even though he knows that muscle sits under the layer of fat. 

“What?” Baze starts, not focusing properly because Chirrut looks like something out of a dream, something he would kneel at the feet of and lick over his calves and up the finely hewn structures of his legs to his thighs and the hot heat between them, suck him into his mouth and stroke his tongue over the head again and again until Chirrut is so overcome with pleasure that he babbles brokenly, comes all the way undone. Nothing, Baze thinks, is as close to worship as pressing his lips against Chirrut’s skin, Chirrut’s fingers in his hair, his name on Chirrut’s lips, Chirrut’s very essence coating his mouth and his throat when he finishes.

“Bed,” Chirrut says again, insistent, demanding, pushes forward with his hips, which only drags their skin against each other, already sweat slick, the friction of their cocks against each other makes Baze’s head spin a little.

Chirrut crowds forward, a lean hard line advancing, and Baze steps carefully backward, allowing himself to be moved, both hands on Chirrut’s hips now, fingers ghosting across the skin as the muscles underneath ripple as perfectly as sails on a boat in the breeze. Baze would lick there, too, press his tongue to every rise and fall, peak and valley, leave hot kisses across those planes, tease until Chirrut, demanding, ready to shake apart, would thread his fingers into his hair and tug, the not quite painful but just enough demand that always almost makes Baze come from it alone. 

The back of Baze’s legs hit the bed, and he is surprised that he manages to sit down on it without flailing and causing a scene. Chirrut swarms him, clambering onto his lap, lips immediately on him, and Baze tilts his head back slightly, opens his mouth, falls into yet another needy, hungry, everything kiss. It strikes him sometimes when they are entangled like this, when he can feel the heat and the pulse of the Force as well as the blood under Chirrut’s skin, how the Jedi believe that attachments are something to be spurned, and he cannot understand. Baze has never felt the Force as strongly, never felt as whole or as connected to the universe as he does when he and Chirrut are tangled together. Love makes things crystalline, pristine and clear, almost sharp enough to cut his skin right down to the bone without even feeling an instant of pain.

The Jedi are fools, he thinks, as Chirrut’s tongue sweeps over the roof of his mouth, and Baze cants his hips up, their cocks sliding against each other in a way that makes Chirrut keen into his mouth. Baze swallows the sound to save for later, to tell Chirrut about when he lets him, about how that sound can make his blood boil, can make his brain burst and his lungs sing and his cock twitch to life in the middle of the night when he so much as thinks about a faint echo of it. He winds an arm around Chirrut’s waist and tugs him closer even as he uses the other along with his legs to push himself back, further onto the bed, splaying out across it, Chirrut still on him, wrapped like clinging vines. Baze sweeps his hands up the perfection of Chirrut’s back, over the play of muscles that shift under his skin, traces each slight scar, he knows them all, knows all their tales and stories and origins just as Chirrut knows the scars across Baze’s body. It is their history, written down on flesh as easily as it might have been on paper, and Baze will never forget an instant of it, especially when he can reach out and find a tactile reminder.

“Tell me,” Chirrut whispers, husky, hoarse when he finally breaks the kiss, breathing quickly. “You promised, Baze. Tell me.” The last word is a drawn out, impatient hiss that curls right into Baze’s spine, a jolt of energy like working on blaster cores without disconnecting the battery but more intense and less life-threatening.

Baze swallows because his throat is dry and his tongue seems thick and the only thing he can see or think of is Chirrut’s wide, love blown pupils, and the way he licks his lips and bites at them, ravenous, impatient. Baze draws his fingers across Chirrut’s cheek and smiles when his lover turns toward the motion. He is not stalling. He is just thinking, trying to find the best way to order the words, to make them sound smokey and sensual instead of halting and strange, which is what normally comes out in this situation. Every time before he has fumbled, stuttered, stumbled, mumbled not very sexy things into the crook of his own neck, against Chirrut’s abdomen, the flesh of his thigh. Every time before he has muttered something so low that Chirrut had to ask him to repeat it and when he did there was giggling and praise and kisses and assertions that it didn’t matter if Baze could say it, Chirrut knew, Chirrut loved. 

He wants to manage something closer to comprehensible, closer to the pleas and strings of filthy, wonderful words that Chirrut can weave as easily and as succinctly as he can do anything else. Baze, as always, as usual, wants to please Chirrut in any way possible. Over the years, he has learned many ways to do that; they have learned many ways to do that together. Yet this one remains elusive, a discipline beyond his reach when Baze is a scholar of so many.

“Baze,” Chirrut says, and the lilt of his voice makes it sound like a whine even as his hips press forward, up, sliding their cocks against each other again in a way that makes Baze groan and shift his hand to the back of Chirrut’s neck, tugging his face forward so that Baze can touch their foreheads together in another sort of embrace, one of the first they learned, very young, praying to the Force together. Over the years, it, like their friendship, has evolved into something else.

“You,” Baze murmurs, and they are close enough that their air is shared, that the breath he uses to speak the word is the breath that Chirrut takes in, inhales the word, and Baze hopes some part of it will linger within his body always. “You, naked, glowing like the sunset.” He cradles Chirrut’s face in both his hands, and Chirrut’s hands on his waist tighten a bit, clutching. “Your smile warm like lava rocks in the caves to stretch out on and chase the chill of the unknown away. Your eyes bright like bits of kyber, promising wisdom and life and adventure.”

Chirrut clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth as though he is annoyed, and shimmies a little in the grip, his fingers crawling up Baze’s sides even as his hips twist slightly, and the friction is distracting, but Baze is studious and has learned how to ignore Chirrut a little over the years.

“Be still, my light.”

“You’re just talking poetry,” Chirrut says, and it’s supposed to be a complaint but Baze can tell by the note in his voice that Chirrut is wrecked. He complains about the poetry sometimes, the lack of action in it, nothing but long lists of winding words, but Baze knows better, has gotten him hard and pleading just by whispering sonnets into his ear. The pace of poetry, however, is sometimes too slow for Chirrut, especially when he is already wound and hard and needy, his cock weeping precome between their bodies.

The poetry is slow and coded and meticulous, everything that Baze can be at the heart of him.

“Your cock is a poem.”

Chirrut groans and the upward thrust of his hips leaves both of them panting even as Baze shuts his eyes tight, tight, and struggles to hold on, not give in and just roll Chirrut onto his back and trail his lips down his perfect body, over his abdomen and still lower until he can take him into his mouth and suck him into oblivion. It’s tempting, of course, because there are few things that Baze likes better than watching Chirrut, coiled spring, flashing smile, always honed Chirrut, go limp and nonsensical, driven to and over the brink, wordless, flailing, coming in his mouth while Baze swallows around him until Chirrut deems it too much and pats his hair until Baze surfaces and they end up tangled limb in limb.

“Tell me the poem about my cock then.”

Baze opens his eyes again, and Chirrut is biting his lip hard enough that Baze reaches out to save it, drag his thumb across it even as Chirrut flicks the tip of his tongue over the digit, teasing. Baze is worse, but he can tease, too. “Poems belong in mouths.”

Above him, Chirrut snaps his teeth near Baze’s thumb. “You’re not getting out of your promise that easily, my heart.” Chirrut’s hands encircle Baze’s wrists, and Baze lets him lift his arms up, press them back against the bed, hold them down, not enough to hurt just enough to pin. They have both been pinned before, but Baze is the one who likes it best, which Chirrut knows and uses to his advantage whenever he can. He leaves one hand holding both of Baze’s wrists and twines the other into his hair, pulling in just the right way to make Baze gasp and arch; they both hiss at that as their cocks, trapped between their bodies, hard and with little overt attention being paid, win a bit of friction. They have both been decent at remaining relatively still but the longer this game of teasing lasts, the less likely that is to continue. 

Chirrut’s lips find the shell of his ear, “Tell me the poem about my cock.”

Baze groans. “It’s actually more performative than spoken.”

The laughter that bubbles out of Chirrut is short and sweet, cut off by the fact that he sucks the lobe of Baze’s ear into his mouth, making Baze twitch beneath him, hips pressing together insatiably again. It would be so easy, Baze thinks, to just keep thrusting up, to allow himself and Chirrut to become so distracted that they could lose the plot of the encounter. With Chirrut focused on lavishing affection on his ear, on making him pant and moan, it would be simple to break the slack grip on his wrists, to roll them over and show Chirrut exactly the poem that he has prepared for his cock with flicks of his tongue and careful kisses and hands splayed across the jutting of his hipbones hard enough to leave thumbprint bruises in their wake, just the way that Chirrut likes best so that he can saunter into the training ground, shirtless, pants worn low and let the marks see the light of day, let everyone know exactly how taken he allows himself to be.

Baze never stops blushing over this show. No matter how many times Chirrut does it, no matter how proud and delighted Chirrut seems over it. Part of Baze is always ashamed at the marking, the visible reminder that he has been just a little too forceful, the rest of him, the majority of him, only wants to pull Chirrut to him, place his lips over those marks and then tug the pants off and put his mouth lower. 

As though sensing what he is thinking, Chirrut nuzzles his face into his shoulder, sucks against the skin for a moment and then hisses, “Don’t you dare, Baze Malbus.” The fingers around his wrist tighten just a touch, press down harder even as Chirrut leans more of his body weight on him, an action that makes Baze’s head swim because he likes it; he has always liked it, and he remembers how wide Chirrut smiled the day he crowded him, honed steel limbs the most reassuring cage in the world against him, and Baze nearly came from just that alone. There’s nothing dangerous about any of it, and Baze knows that Chirrut would never hurt him, would let him go in an instant if he asked. There is no situation wherein Baze could ever imagine him asking to be let go. If he had his way, they would stay like this forever, Chirrut bodily pinning him, lips and hands and bodies close, every movement a new epiphany about love and worship and desire.

“You’re supposed to be telling me all the things you think about that make you hard, that make you come, spill over your own fist instead of mine. That’s what you’re supposed to be doing. Not distracting me. Not planning to still your mouth and mine by blowing me. You can do that later.” Chirrut’s voice is a husky purr, his legs have started to grind in slow, tight circles that provide heat and friction against their cocks.

Baze keens and cants his hips up, seeking something more than the slow tease he is being provided, enraptured as much by Chirrut’s tones as the words themselves. Mastery of the body has always been Chirrut’s greatest discipline, and Baze envies his ability to do so here more than in other places. Baze is always leaps and bounds behind on that, though he has improved markedly; months ago he would have already come by now or be right on the cusp, begging, pleading with Chirrut to take him, slip inside him, for release in his hand or mouth. Now he just pants and twists and seeks more stimulation for his cock, hard and pulsing, precome leaking and smearing against their skin as they move in this teasing, slow but escalating quickly.

He wants nothing more than to cup the back of Chirrut’s neck, plunder his mouth while wrapping his other hand around both their cocks, stroking until Chirrut is muttering nonsense words, a smattering of all their mantras swirled together, the only truly discernible thing Baze’s name interspersed between every couple of words. 

“Chirrut.” Whisper, sigh, prayer, please.

Chirrut’s lips graze his own, and Baze opens his eyes, which he does not remember closing, to find him hovering, dark eyes full of everything lovely in the universe. “You promised, my heart.” A kiss then, gentle, lingering, and Chirrut is shaking, the slow, lowkey tremor that he gets when he, too, is almost on the brink. There are apparently limits to Chirrut’s mastery as well. “I will not be cruel. I will not judge you. I want to know. You’re so beautiful. I want to know. Please.” The last word is so soft, practically breathed into Baze’s mouth as he opens it to accept another kiss, this one scorching, bright as what he imagines it would be like to step into the light of a newborn star, and when Baze arches up into it, legs as splayed as he can manage with Chirrut’s weight on them, Chirrut’s cock slips between them, presses against his perineum, and they both moan into the kiss even as Chirrut’s hips stutter forward into an almost rhythm that makes Baze’s head swim. 

“Please,” Chirrut manages to choke out again when he lifts his head, turning his face into Baze’s neck.

Baze thinks that if Chirrut was more settled into his own mind he would reposition his hips, his cock, but he doesn’t. It remains solid, hard, slick with both their fluids, slipping between Baze’s thighs. It should make it harder to focus on words, but it has the opposite effect, Baze finds. If anything, it seems to make it easier. It’s harder to worry about sounding like a fool, perhaps, when all he wants is to feel Chirrut inside of him, claiming the last bit of space left, the only piece of him that is not already pressed flush and warm. His throat clicks a bit, dry from all the panting when he swallows. His words when they rush out are a jumble. “Your cock is a poem.”

Chirrut’s groan is encouraging now, utterly wrecked, frustrated still but in the way that heralds orgasm instead of aggravation that Baze is not properly fulfilling the assignment.

“I think about it. Best worshipped kneeling, with tongue.”

The fingers in his hair tighten, urging him to continue as much as the rock of Chirrut’s hips, the slide of his cock, shallow and slow, rubbing behind his balls, between his thighs, so close to being inside of him but not actually there yet.

“Your,” Baze’s words fumble a little, dry in his mouth, but Chirrut’s lips against his throat untangle them again. “Your cock is a poem worth lingering on, gathered in the mouth, practiced. Every stanza worth memorizing until they can be recalled at will to warm like stones under the Jedhan sun.” It is easier to parse his desire this way, though he knows that it is not exactly what Chirrut meant when he set him to this task. Compromise has always been their way, especially when it comes to him. Chirrut will leap off buildings with barely a glance. Baze will follow but only once he has measured and considered. Once he knows what he is capable of, though, Baze can be the first to gallop into danger. This might not be exactly what Chirrut wanted, but he doesn’t seem to be complaining. And Baze will get there. Eventually.

But Chirrut, it seems, is not content to let Baze languish completely behind flowery words. “It makes you hard.”

“Yes,” Baze exhales the word like it has been punched out of him, and Chirrut keens and shudders and curses into his neck, his hips still continuing with their slow slide. “The memory of those recitations. I think about my mouth practicing those verses and how the ease of my tongue makes you shudder, and I am undone. I am spent. On my hand wishing it were your skin so that I could trace my tongue through it, across your stomach, my mouth still full of you, mixing us together in another way inside my body.”

The noise that Chirrut makes seems strangled and far away, followed by a whispered, “Fuck, Baze. Force. Please.”

Baze has slipped beyond the physical, drawn into something like a Force trace though this one is wrapped and bound by words more than actions or the energy contained within the universe. This is a different sort of sinking. He is still aware of Chirrut’s hand around his wrists, the fingers tugging into his hair like his lover needs a reminder of the physical world and the slide of Chirrut’s cock between his thighs, but the heat and the climb of his own desire does not reach him as much there. It is like he has slid a silk screen between his physical body and his words, like he is focused on Chirrut so much that his own straining, leaking cock is no longer a concern. This is what Chirrut asked for, this is what Chirrut wanted, and Baze has always been the very definition of dedication to a cause. For better or worse.

“I think of you inside of me, moving like the seas under the surface of Jedha, the waves lapping at the shores. Completion is a gathering of all the elements.” Baze, in his slight almost trance state, tilts his face to nuzzle against Chirrut’s, lifts his hips to drive Chirrut further between his legs, catching slightly at Baze’s rim and drawing a hissing sigh from Chirrut that Baze knows means he’s close, he’s so close. “The stone of your muscle and the wind of your laugh and the fire of your mind and the undulating waves of your movements, the water of your blood rushing through your body the way you push inside my own. The spirit of us both gathered and twisted together.”

There is less steel in Chirrut’s body now, and Baze recognizes the way he gets when he is loosening, when he stops being all of his parts and just becomes himself. 

It’s easy now to take advantage of the situation, to catch Chirrut off guard, free his hands, and then use the surprise and his trance focus to reverse their positions, flip Chirrut so that he is now splayed on the bed beneath them. Baze presses his lips to Chirrut’s flushed throat, trying to soothe his thundering heart by easing his tongue over the pulse in his neck. Chirrut’s hands snake back into the riot of Baze’s hair, likely tangling it. They both know that he will brush it glossy later, braid it, slip his love into it through his fingers. 

Baze leaves Chirrut’s cock untouched, brackets his thighs around Chirrut’s legs and purposefully keeps space between their hips so that only thing caressing their straining erections is the air. And his words. 

Chirrut has made Baze come from words alone, but Baze has never managed to turn those tables. Yet.

He traces his lips up Chirrut’s neck to his ear where he whispers the next words, spinning them slow and supple like using the wheel for clay when they make the bowls for the temple. To keep Chirrut from touching either of them, he threads their hands together, and Chirrut grips as though he were clinging to rocks, trying not to clatter into the mouth of a ravine. Baze tightens his thighs around Chirrut’s slightly to keep him from rutting up too much, content to leave him straining into the air. His own desire thrums and flares, but it is still at arms length thanks to the almost trance that he has found, the place where he can weave words without his voice shaking from embarrassment. Baze is not sure whether he will ever be embarrassed by this again, considering the way it makes Chirrut pant and twitch, the flush of need high on his cheeks; the way it makes him glow. Baze thinks he could do this all day, every day, wind Chirrut up with words, watch him come undone beneath him, untouched. He wonders if this is the way they can teach Chirrut more patience, wonders if he himself is patient enough for such a task.

“Your cock is a poem shouting its rhythms inside of me; its meter you entering and me rising to meet you. When it finishes, it finishes with a shout into darkness and our names entwined in the stars.” 

“Baze,” Chirrut’s voice cracks, and his eyes are searching and wild when Baze glances up to look at him, struck as always by his loveliness. “Touch me.” It’s not a command, just a want, just a need, though one that Baze does not feel compelled to fulfill at the moment.

Chirrut’s hands in his own tighten and release in spasms, and Baze continues to angle his hips away when Chirrut tries to buck up into them. He lowers his face enough to blow air over Chirrut’s collarbones, to watch the flex of the muscle, tight and corded, under the skin, the way that he glows even now that most of the slanting sunlight has been lost to them. Chirrut glows like the sun, like the stars, like kyber, like the Force. Baze passes his tongue over that skin again and again while Chirrut twitches beneath him, moaning. And he knows, without Chirrut even saying anything he knows, that it is neither the type of touch that Chirrut was begging for nor enough touch, but it is something that sates them both a bit. 

“I think of touching you, of holding you, like this,” Baze tightens their conjoined hands, skates his teeth across Chirrut’s clavicle, the small scar there from a sparring match many years ago, and feels his lover shudder, his hips rise, and the hiss of frustration he makes from the lack of release that has occurred yet. “I think of tracing my tongue down your body, kissing the laughter from your mouth. I remember you twitching with my fingers inside of you, stroking you until you gasp and cry. Everything about you excites me. Everything about you is intriguing.” Even the things that can be frustrating, even the things that can be unsettling like Chirrut’s fingers stealing under his robes during prayers. 

Here is another thing he can exploit. “I rise when your fingers find me during meditation. We speak of the Force, and I think of the Force of you inside of me, everything curled tightly together. I come with your name on my lips and the quirk of your smile behind my eyes. You laugh across rooms, and I get dizzy.”

The trance itself is dulling, thinning, and it’s harder not to give in and touch, kiss, suck Chirrut fully into his mouth the way he wanted to when they began this and feel him shudder to pieces beneath his tongue. But once Baze has set his mind to something, it can be hard to move him. Chirrut is lightning, the flash of a storm out in the wastes beyond the mesa, but Baze is the rock-hewn statues that have watched the temple for decades, slowly worn down by wind and rain but stubborn, purposeful.

He is purposeful. This is what Chirrut wanted, words, that is what Chirrut will get. He will have him spasming and shaking. On words.

When he pulls up enough that he can look at Chirrut’s eyes again, the man seems possessed, wild, and wanting but transfixed, hanging on his every word. Baze leans down, close enough that they are lip to lip, close enough that he can feel every shudder and quake that worms through Chirrut’s body as he speaks, as they touch. “You asked what I think of on the nights when we are apart. We are never apart. Not really. I think of you, I reach for you, across the Force, across the space. I find you, the Force of you, and I come with you on my lips and you inside of me and your hands spread across my thighs. I come with your eyes on me and your hands in my hair. I come with you, bound in the Force with you. I am one with the Force. I am one with you.”

The kiss he steals is short, just a light press of lips, though Chirrut whines and follows him, hungry, and Baze kisses him again, just as sweet, just as fleeting. “Chirrut, he says, and the other’s hips jump. “Chirrut, I’ll come thinking of this now, you transfixed, coming from my words. Chirrut.”

And then Baze bites Chirrut’s lip, quick, not too hard, but unexpected. Enough to make Chirrut cry out, wordless, just a noise, and make his hips stutter and jump again, warmth coating them both as he comes, just as Baze had wanted, untouched. 

This time when Chirrut flexes his hands, Baze lets them go, and the curl of Chirrut’s fingers around his hard and straining cock snaps him out of the almost trance, pulls him right back into his throbbing and aching want, which is sharp and crystalline and needy to the point of almost pain. He cants into Chirrut’s grip, and if it’s not nearly as precise and honed as normal, he forgives him. He would forgive him anything. Baze comes with a cry in moments, Chirrut’s name on his lips, and their spend mixes together, cooling between them. 

He means to get up or at least roll off, but Chirrut locks him in place with his arms, still surprisingly strong even though Baze knows that he has been thoroughly wrecked and kisses him, kisses him like he is trying to draw something out of him, words or soul, Baze isn’t sure. He’d give up both. He’d give up anything. 

Chirrut kisses him like nothing else exists in the universe. Then he uses his strength to roll Baze onto the bed, fixing him with an almost glare. Even though they are covered in sheens of cooling sweat, even after the exertions, it’s cold now without the warmth of Chirrut’s body pressed to his, out of the trance, back in the real world where the Jedhan wind leaks through the window that had been letting the light in. The tacky mess on Baze’s stomach is drying, but it’s not completely unpleasant, a visual reminder of what he managed to achieve. The wins he claims here are small victories, but they are still victories even though it cannot be said that either of them loses. Not really.

Next to him, Chirrut covers his face with his hands and groans. It is not entirely a pleasant sound.

“Chirrut.”

“Do you know what you’ve done?”

Baze frowns, suddenly concerned that he has somehow missed the mark on the whole endeavor. He spoke. He did what Chirrut asked. He spoke. At length. About what got him hard, about what helped him get off on those nights when it is just him and his hand and every moment, every memory of Chirrut, every idea that he can pull from his head. Honestly, it is his belief that the whole thing was a great success even if he hadn’t gotten the chance to show Chirrut the performance aspect of his opinion that his lover’s cock is a poem. It seemed to end well at the very least. “Weren’t you pleased?”

Chirrut lifts his hands from his face and turns on his side to look at Baze, scoots closer to lay a hand against his cheek in a soothing manner, which must mean that Baze looks stricken. “Stop fretting. Yes, I was. Thoroughly.”

It does not calm as much as it should. “Then what’s the matter?”

“Do you know how difficult it’s going to be to get through the mantras now? Especially on days when you’re leading?” Chirrut shifts his hips slightly as though to stave off reactions from his cock, though Baze knows that even Chirrut does not recover quite so fast. It’s possible that it’s different coming untouched. Perhaps there is a chance for that performative measure sooner rather than later.

Baze can’t help it. He thinks of the meditation room, of the lines of acolytes and masters and guardians and initiates. He thinks of his voice as he chants, low, a rumble as Chirrut calls it, and he thinks of Chirrut in the rows, squirming. Baze thinks of this, and he laughs. He laughs, deep and full, a sound big enough to fill their small room and crowd out the whistling wind. With his hand settled on Chirrut’s hip, he laughs.

Chirrut shoves at his chest as though aggravated, but it’s not long before Chirrut is laughing, too, more golden, more effervescent than Baze’s own elation. “Stop it, Baze. It’s not funny.”

Perhaps it is not funny, but it is amusing. In much the same way that so many things about Chirrut are amusing. “I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me,” Baze says as his chuckles begin to wind down, making sure his voice is low, that it vibrates, and he knows that Chirrut can feel it through the hand that remains on his chest.

“Stop.”

“May the Force be with you.”

Chirrut rolls his eyes even as he reaches for some of their discarded clothes to wipe the drying fluids across their skin. Baze follows his movements with his eyes and thinks again of that day when Chirrut crowded him in the hall, Chirrut’s lips on his neck, Chirrut’s hands under his robe. Chirrut. With his smile and his words and his love, bundled together, a treasure hard to hold but all the more precious because of that when he lingers. “Nope. You’re in trouble. You tranced instead of touching me.”

“It seemed like you were enjoying it.”

Chirrut clicks his tongue at him in what could be frustration if it wasn’t paired with him sliding closer and then the brush of lips on Baze’s collarbone, kisses over the places that Chirrut had marked earlier. “Well, yes, but I didn’t get to do much. That wasn’t the point of the exercise. I assumed you would be base about it and say things like how you think about me sucking you off. I should have known I’d be left with erotic poetry mixed with religious subtext. My boner is going to be confused now when it doesn’t get blown during sutras.”

Baze slips a leg over Chirrut’s hip to pull him closer. “It wouldn’t bother me if you recite sutras when I wrap my mouth around you.”

“I’ve unleashed a monster.” Chirrut doesn’t sound as discontent with this revelation as the words make it seem like he would be.

“The Force of others,” Baze whispers into Chirrut’s ear and is rewarded with a shudder. 

“Baze,” he says, a warning, but slides closer until they are skin to skin, arms and legs thrown over bodies, faces close enough the Baze’s eyes cross slightly trying to meet Chirrut’s gaze.

“I’d like to remind you that you started this.”

“Oh?”

The fact that Chirrut sounds so blase about it almost makes Baze start laughing again. “Who was feeling me up in the temple gardens in full view of anyone?”

Chirrut waves a hand in the air, and the gesture is simple, easy, and so utterly him. Baze has learned so many of his gestures over the years that he could not even make a list if asked. There are too many, and he knows them by heart more than by mind. The way he knows the Force. “You were so pretty with the light in your hair, and greenery around you. Should I have left well enough alone?” Chirrut asks.

“No,” Baze says.

“No?” Chirrut’s brows quirk a little with the question, and his mouth hovers just there, easy, slack, within reach and glorious.

Baze reaches for him, curls his fingers around the meat of Chirrut’s upper arm, not hard enough to bruise but solid and there, something real. “Never,” he says, and then Chirrut is crowding him again, kissing him, and the press against his leg proves that Chirrut is definitely already interested again. “There are two versions of that poem,” Baze mutters, though his words are muffled by the proximity of Chirrut’s lips.  
“I look forward to learning the other one.”

Baze looks forward to showing him.


End file.
